


Close

by Kagedtiger



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagedtiger/pseuds/Kagedtiger
Summary: Maybe they have just a touch of PTSD. Maybe it's just been too long knowing what they want and doing nothing about it. Maybe it's just a human need from spending too much time with humans. Whatever it is, the world didn't end. It doesn't call for celebration so much as exhausted collapse.





	Close

**Author's Note:**

> Based partially on this Tumblr post by gingersnapwolves: https://kagedt.tumblr.com/post/185332912071/gingersnapwolves-i-definitely-head-canon-crowley
> 
> It's sort of amazing to me: Good Omens was one of the first fandoms I ever wrote fic for, back in the days when I had to create my own website for hosting my fics because there were no archive sites. The (incredibly negative but also constructive) feedback on that fic helped shape who I am as a writer. Now, literally decades later, here I am writing it again somehow. It has a strangely full-circle feel to it.

When they arrive at Crowley’s flat, they’re both slightly damp. It started raining on the walk back from the bus stop and neither of them had quite the energy to stop the droplets from reaching them. 

Aziraphale has been to Crowley’s flat far fewer times than Crowley has been to the bookshop, and whenever he’s visited in the past he’s always stood awkwardly in the foyer, like he had an urgent errand distracting his attention and was already halfway out the door. Now he fidgets near the door with that same uncomfortable hesitance, and Crowley finds that he can’t stand it. The demon is full of nervous energy and doesn’t know where to put it all.

“Make yourself at home,” he mutters. He waves a hand in the general direction of the hall. “Bedroom’s down that way on the left.” And then he mentally swears at himself for being an absolute tit and retreats to the kitchen. He doesn’t have anything particular to do there, but it’s easier than watching Aziraphale. Easier than imagining taking off his wet coat for him. Walking with him to the bedroom. This is stupid. It’s Crowley’s flat.

He sighs and roots around in the cupboard for an old square bottle of brandy that always seems to be reliably tucked into a corner somewhere, whether he remembers putting it there or not. He gets out two small glasses so it’ll look like he came into the kitchen for a reason, and sets them on the counter. Then he leans heavily against the smooth, cold surface and takes a few moments to breathe. Just breathe. Humans do it all the time, and it seems to calm them down in a crisis. Crowley’s not human, of course, but their methods seem to have worked for him in so many other ways, it’s at least worth a shot.

It doesn’t clear away his sense of foreboding, but it does make him feel a bit more focused. He grabs up the glasses between his fingers with one hand and the alcohol with the other, and makes his way towards the bedroom.

When he gets there, Aziraphale has removed his coat and is standing staring vacantly at the bed. Crowley’s not sure how long he’s been staring like that, as still as a statue of the madonna. He looks so lost; so utterly, terribly helpless that Crowley can’t stand it. 

When Crowley enters the room, Aziraphale looks up at him and the full force of that undone expression washes over the demon. Crowley barely has the presence of the mind to drop the brandy and glasses onto the top of a nearby dresser before he’s crossed the room to Aziraphale’s side.

This is a thing about himself that Crowley doesn’t understand, but which has been true for a long time. His instinct to comfort this angel -- to never see him worried or sad or in pain -- is as real as his instinct to tempt or corrupt. More real. A desperate protective feeling swells in him until it seems like his body can’t possibly contain it. Before he even realizes it he has stopped in front of Aziraphale, his hands grasping the angel’s forearms, wings out and curled defensively around them both, shielding them from the world.

Aziraphale grips him tightly. The angel’s wings are out now as well and Crowley can see every feather in them tremble like a leaf in a storm. The angel makes a choked noise and leans forward, seeking, until their foreheads are pressed together. He sobs; no tears, just the desperate sound of breath unable to escape around the overwhelming emotions stuck in his chest and throat. Crowley pulls him closer, moves his hands feverishly to grasp either side of Aziraphale’s face as the angel keens. It’s a frightening noise, like the creak of heavy masonry before it breaks. Crowley thinks it would be a full-out scream if the angel could only get enough breath for it.

“It’s okay. We’re alive. It’s okay. We’re alive,” Crowley hears himself chanting over and over and over. “We made it. It’s over. We’re alive. It’s all still here.” He doesn’t think about what he’s saying, just lets the words dribble from his mouth like so much nonsense. He can’t tell if Aziraphale can hear him, if he’s listening at all to any of this, but Crowley isn’t really paying any attention to the words either; just making a soothing white background noise.

Slowly the storm subsides. Aziraphale’s sobs crumble down into hitches and shudders, and then finally into deep, shaky breaths. His hands still clutch Crowley’s upper arms tightly in a lifeline grip, but it’s fine. Everything is fine. They’re both here. They’re both alive. The universe continues to exist. Eventually Aziraphale’s grip, too, slowly starts to relax, fingers unclenching as Aziraphale finally comes back to himself.

“S-sorry,” the angel murmurs quietly. “Don’t- don’t quite know what came over me there.”

“It’s fine.” Crowley repeats, one of the things he’s been saying on loop for the past several minutes. He pulls away just far enough to peer into Aziraphale’s face, but Aziraphale seems to take this as some kind of signal and steps backwards, breaking contact. 

“I- thank you my dear.” The angel takes another few deep breaths. His eyes are focused on the wall somewhere past Crowley’s elbow. For a long moment there is silence.

“Do you-” Crowley gestures vaguely, hand moving in a half-hearted circle. “Would you like me to get you something to sleep in?”

“Hm? Oh, I-” Aziraphale is suddenly flustered, which is at least a more common state that Crowley doesn’t mind seeing him in. “Oh, no, I- I’m fine, I think I can still manage a...” Aziraphale trails off with a general wave at himself, and then his clothes change to a set of pale, flannel pajamas with tiny buttons running up the front. They’re supremely unfashionable, but they look soft. Crowley smiles helplessly. They have tiny pale blue bunnies on them.

Crowley wills on his own habitual sleeping clothes: a pair of blood-red silk boxers. He has the satisfaction of watching Aziraphale’s ears turn pink around the edges. Crowley inclines his head towards the bed. “Come on angel. It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

“We don’t need to sleep,” Aziraphale points out shyly, despite already being in his pajamas.

“We absolutely do,” Crowley insists. “Human remedies for human victories. Come on.” He moves to one side to get under the covers.

Crowley’s bed is massive, and incredibly soft. Crowley enjoys sleep; it’s one of the better inventions of life on earth, in his opinion. And if he’s going to indulge in the pleasures of humanity, he’s going to do it with as stylishly high a thread-count as possible. The blankets are a deep, hazy purple shot through with black in a way that makes the whole edifice look vaguely ominous, but Crowley is well aware that it’s also comfortable as sin.

Aziraphale gets into the bed with a prim tightness that tells Crowley that he’s nervous. Crowley’s certain he knows every thought going through the angel’s mind right now. Decades and centuries of the angel telling himself that Crowley is too dangerous, that they’ll get in trouble. Of wanting this and being too afraid to move towards it. Crowley’s been there himself. He doesn’t understand how Aziraphale can have stood it for so long.

Crowley opens his arms, an offering, and although it is hesitant, Aziraphale comes to him. Crowley holds the angel, tucks Aziraphale’s head under his chin and thinks that this is exactly perfect. This is exactly where the angel should be: here. Safe. Close enough that Crowley can protect him from anything and everything. From heaven and hell and anything else in the blessed universe. Crowley takes a deep breath and wills the lights out in the room.

After a few minutes Aziraphale turns around, but doesn’t pull away. He just snuggles backwards harder until Crowley tightens his arms around the angel’s chest and stomach, pulling him back until they are pressed together from toetip to hairline. For the first time since the universe didn’t end, Crowley feels calm.

This is it. The human remedy, this thing they have that neither heaven nor hell can understand. This closeness is what the humans have shown them. Comfort, physical touch that is nothing more than a small warmth and meager defense against the looming darkness of the world, and yet it is everything. None of them, not one angel nor demon besides the two of them, could possibly understand what it means.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says again, quietly.

“No problem,” Crowley responds, even though he’s not entirely sure what Aziraphale is thanking him for. “It’s not so bad, is it?” he teases.

He feels Aziraphale give a little huff in his arms. There’s silence for a moment before the angel says, “No. No, it’s not so bad.”

Crowley smiles against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale’s body is warm, and his heartbeat steady. Perhaps it is out of habit, or sympathy with the earth that has not been destroyed. Crowley drifts off.

 

When he wakes up alone, he panics. He rushes out into the hall and skids to a halt as he finds a surprised angel in the main entryway, looking slightly perplexed.

“Ah, you’re up,” says Aziraphale cheerfully, but Crowley can tell it’s a forced cheer. The angel swallows. “I was just looking for some paper to leave you a note.”

“You’re leaving,” Crowley says flatly. A tight, acid feeling rises in his chest.

“Just for a bit,” Aziraphale insists. “I want to check on my bookshop. What’s... left of it. I thought I’d... well, and I need a bit... just a bit of time to think, is all...” He won’t meet Crowley’s gaze.

‘It always has to be so complicated with you,’ Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead he nods. He’s never really stopped thinking about what Aziraphale told him in 1967. He’ll go slow. “Alright then. But... don’t stay out too long.” He saunters a bit closer and leans against the wall, hoping to catch more of Aziraphale’s expression, get a better sense of his mood. Is he regretting all this? Is he just embarrassed? Nervous? “I’ve been thinking about Agnes’s last prophecy and, well, I’m not entirely sure how safe it is for us out there at the moment.”

This startles Aziraphale into looking up at him. “Not safe?”

Crowley shrugs. “Heaven and hell are still out there. And we’ve been a real couple of spanners in their works, haven’t we? I wouldn’t put it past them to try and make examples of us. We need to think of a plan.”

Aziraphale nods vaguely. “You may be right. I’ll just- I’ll just pop off to my shop for a bit and, er, see if anything’s salvageable. And then I shall return.” He pauses, and his eyes drift up sheepishly to meet Crowley’s. “I promise,” he says.

This is good enough for Crowley. “Be safe,” he commands. And then, because fuck it why not, he takes a step forward and stoops swiftly to kiss Aziraphale on the cheek. The wide-eyed look of surprise and wondrous fondness on Aziraphale’s face makes it totally worth it.

Aziraphale leaves, and Crowley loafs around the flat a bit before getting dressed and stepping outside. Then he sees the Bentley, whole and unharmed and in its usual parking spot, and he truly begins to realize what sort of a new morning has dawned.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering another chapter, but if so it would only be loosely related; I might just end up writing it as an entirely separate fic.


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